


Someone to Watch Over Me

by Pickwick12



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Iron Man - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:18:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 21,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3175840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pickwick12/pseuds/Pickwick12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wartime diary of a woman named Anna who meets a man named Edwin Jarvis. This story now has a sequel called That Man of Mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August 3, 1943

August 3, 1943  
I turned twenty-eight yesterday. This is the third birthday I have known since war came to Budapest. I begged my father not to make a fuss, but he wouldn’t be reasoned with. We had Mr. Bokori from next door and Mr. and Mrs. Feher from across the street over for dinner and a small party. The Solyms have gone to America. I cannot lie to my diary and claim that I did not miss their son Adorjan’s company. I know that at one time, my father hoped we might make a life together, but we never cared for each other in that way. Still, I missed his ready laugh and his quick wit.

The crowning moment of the evening was when my father went to his room and pulled out this dairy. I had not expected to receive any presents. It was more than enough to have a reason to put on my green dress and smile at my neighbors. Money is scarce. But you know how Papa is, or, rather, you will. He handed me this leatherbound volume that he‘s been hiding since last October. Mr. Vadas from the bookshop sold it to him just before—before the bombing that destroyed the rest of his stock. 

Mrs. Feher brought over her phonograph, and we finished the night by dancing to an American song called “Someone to Watch Over Me.” Mr. Bokori twirled me around the living room with admirable solemnity, and admit that I did not regret my father’s insistence on a celebration. 

When the guests had finally left after drinks and embraces, Papa took me onto his knee as if I were all of eight instead of twenty-eight. “My daughter,” he said, “you grow more beautiful each year.”

I snorted. “You know very well that I am short and sharp-featured and overly outspoken.”

“Yes,” he agreed, smiling, “just as your mother was.” I put my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

“I cannot write in the book, you know,” I said. “It’s far too lovely. I will save it for better days, when I have something beautiful to write.”

“No,” Papa answered with unexpected vehemence, “you are a writer, and you must write. Why do you think I didn’t marry you off to one of the good boys from the synagogue years ago?”

“Because I’d have run away and joined the circus,” I replied. 

He laughed, but turned serious after a moment. “There is more in you,” he said, “more than Adam Tisza or Joszua Toth could ever understand. I would rather have you single all your days, with only your pen for company, than unhappy with someone who could not understand you. Still, I wonder if I was wrong. These are difficult times, and if anything were to happen to me—” He couldn’t finish, and I didn’t answer. I simply put my head on his shoulder and let him hold me. There was nothing I could say. I am glad I am not married, but the days are dark. 

I went to bed after a while, with this diary next to me on the pillow. I am a writer, or, at least, I was before the war. Now I work in Mr. Jonas’s shop. Perhaps, some day, when my city is no longer more rubble than building, I will be a writer again. For now, I will do as my father asked and write what I can.

I awoke early this morning and fixed coffee, as I usually do. Papa was asleep in his easy chair with the Talmud by his side. He’d never made it to his bed, which wasn’t unusual. While the water came to boil, I put on my gray wool dress with red buttons. I’ve had to repair it so many times it’s a wonder it still holds together. 

After drinking enough coffee to wake me up, I walked the three quarters of a mile to Jonas’s establishment, one of the few shops left standing in the area. Mr. Jonas is given to pessimism and often says it’s only a matter of time until a bomb finds it, but I prefer to hope otherwise.

I opened the store as I usually do, turning on lights and making sure everything was in its proper place. Before the war, we used to work in pairs or even three at a time. Now it’s all Jonas can do to afford me. It’s all right, though. The shop isn’t large, and I enjoy my own company well enough. It’s a good thing, too, because I didn’t get a stitch of business until eleven o’clock, when Mrs. Halasz came in to buy her husband a white shirt. I was glad for the company, but the whole transaction took less than ten minutes, and I was left alone once again.

That was when something truly unexpected happened, and for once, it was a good something. Wartime makes one a little leery of surprises. I was rearranging the cufflink display for the tenth time when a stranger passed the front window, turned, and came back to the door. Mr. Jonas’s bell dinged as the man entered, and I looked up. 

He was very tall and fearfully handsome. I promise I’m not writing fiction. He wasn’t in uniform, but I could tell he wasn’t Hungarian. I’m not sure how to explain why; it’s something about the bearing. Once you’ve met as many GIs as I have, you get used to the signs. 

“Good morning,” he said. He wasn’t American. The accent was British. But the voice was the important part. It was like chocolate made out of velvet, which sounds rather disgusting, now that I think about it. His voice was not disgusting. I wanted him to speak more. 

“Good morning,” I said, self-conscious about my heavily-accented English. “May I help you find something?”

“A tie to go with a black suit,” he answered readily. 

I studied him for a moment. I make it a point to take customers’ appearances into consideration when I suggest articles of clothing. He had gray-green eyes, brown hair, and the most charming smile I’d ever seen. Of course, you can’t match clothing to a smile. But I took note of it nonetheless.

“How about this?” I handed him a tie with diagonal stripes in slate gray and seaweed green that echoed his eyes. 

“May I try it?” he asked. I nodded. I confess, in that moment I wanted desperately to tie it for him. Silly. He walked over to the mirror and methodically knotted the piece of fabric around his neck in a Windsor Knot. 

Now comes an embarrassing detail that I wouldn’t tell anyone except my private diary. He caught me staring at him. His back was to me, but I was watching his reflection in the mirror. I didn’t mean to. I could offer plenty of excuses, like the fact that we get few strangers in my part of Budapest or that I hadn’t laid eyes on a man I didn’t know for some time, but the plain truth was that I thought he was gorgeous. 

He turned around quickly, and I tried to avert my eyes, but I knew he’d caught me. “This is a very lovely tie,” he said. 

“You are a very lovely man,” I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I’m sure I was blushing crimson.

“I’ll take it,” he said, but he was looking at me instead of at the tie. I went to the counter and waited, and he came over with money in his hand. He was at least a foot taller than I am. 

“What is your name?” he asked, as I was making out a receipt.

“Anna,” I answered.

“I’m Edwin Jarvis,” he said. “May I see you again?”

It’s a good thing I was only holding a piece of paper, because I was so surprised I dropped it onto the floor in front of the counter. 

“Sorry,” I said quickly, coming around to pick it up.

“No, no, let me,” he said, smiling. 

I went back to my place, trying to collecting myself. “I would—like very much to see you again,” I said. 

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he replied. “Goodbye, Miss Anna.” He dipped his head as he left, and I received a final smile, just for me. 

I do not believe in fate, and I do not believe in love at first sight. I do, however, want to see Mr. Jarvis again. I am trying to sleep, but I can’t stop imagining myself tying his tie for him. Perhaps twenty-eight is the year I grow silly.


	2. August 4, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Jarvis returns.

August 4, 1943

We argued. We argued over Ibsen, of all things. I guess I should have realized I couldn't know a man for more than half an hour without disagreeing about something, but I'll start at the beginning.

Last night, when I got home from the shop, my father was in his study with Mr. Kovacs. It's not unusual, especially these days, for him to be with men from the synagogue until late hours. Such is the life of a rabbi. More often than not, he sends them home with money for their hungry children, whether we can spare it or not. As long as we have food on our own table, he will not hesitate to help the desperate with both his counsel and his resources. I did not see Papa before I took to bed, so I did not tell him about my English stranger.

This morning, I awoke with no small amount of excitement. Perhaps it's evidence of how monotonous my life has become that I felt so much joy over the prospect of seeing Mr. Jarvis again, but I couldn't help it. I wondered what on earth he could mean by wanting to come back to a tiny shop just to see a diminutive, sharp-tongued rabbi's daughter.

I wore pink. The dress is a bit faded now, but what do I own that isn't? The pattern I used to sew it, just before the war, said some nonsense about minimizing the waist and accenting the figure. Well, I am no Claudette Colbert, and no manner of sewing wizardly is going to make me so.

I kissed my father goodbye. He looked tired, as if he hadn't slept well, but he smiled in his usual gentle way. "Is that a new dress?"

I laughed. "Yes, Papa. Three years ago."

He looked hard at me for a second, with his arm around my shoulders. "There's something different. Perhaps it's your face that's new."

I blushed. "Don't be silly, Abba," and I was gone, smiling and blushing as I hurried out the door.

All morning, I waited. I made a few sales of buttons and collars, but my heart wasn't in it. My eyes kept straying toward the door, looking for the tall form of the man who had promised to return.

Finally, just past noon, when I was alone, he came. This time, he was in uniform. I'm afraid I stood and watched him walk in like a short, wide-eyed Jewish statue. He was carrying a bouquet and a stack of books.

"Good afternoon, Miss Anna," he said, stopping in front of me to peer down and smile.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Jarvis," I answered. He handed me the flowers, which were white and purple Hungarian crocuses. I very nearly asked him what they were for. No one has given me flowers since Peter Olaszs's ill-fated attempt to woo me in secondary school.

"Thank you," I said, trying to force myself to meet his eyes.

"You're welcome," he answered easily. "I also brought you some books. I noticed you had a volume of Ibsen on the counter yesterday, and I assumed you liked to read. I hope I wasn't being presumptuous."

"I do like to read," I answered. "Let me put these in water, and I'll come back." I turned to go to the washroom, glad for a moment to collect myself.

Was it possible, I wondered, that a good-looking man was standing in the front of my shop, had just given me flowers, and was prepared to hand me a stack of books? I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and wondered if he would be gone when I emerged with the flowers arranged in the only thing I could find, a glass coffee mug. Then again, I thought, if it was all a figment of my imagination, the crocuses could hardly be real. But they were, as vibrant and alive as Mr. Jarvis's wonderful eyes.

I took a few deep breaths and came back out into the front room of the store, placing the flowers carefully on the counter. "My name is Edwin," said my visitor, coming to stand close to me. "Will you call me that?"

"Ed-win," I intoned, trying to get the inflection right. "I promise, I read English better than I speak it," I said, since I had noticed that the books he'd brought were in his native tongue.

"Do you like Ibsen?" he asked, picking up my book of plays from the edge of the counter, where I kept it to occupy me when no customers were present.

"Yes," I said readily. "Do you?"

"I don't take such a desperate view of the human condition," he said. "I preferred A Doll's House to Hedda Gabler. There's no denying the beauty of the words, though."

"I see it the opposite way," I said, growing enthusiastic and losing my reticence. "I find A Doll's House irritating and Hedda Gabler inspiring." It's been a long time since I've been able to talk books with someone other than my father, and I'm particularly consumed with the Norwegian playwright at the moment.

"How so?" asked Edwin, leaning on the counter.

"I blame Nora Helmer for her choices," I said quickly. "She chose her life and then blamed everyone else for it. Hedda, on the other hand, took responsibility for herself."

He shook his head. "But don't you think Hedda's final decision is the supreme act of giving up?"

"No," I said sharply, "I don't. I wouldn't make the same choice to end my life, but the intent of the play is that she's strong rather than weak."

The moment I said it, I regretted my vehemence. I get overly excited when I'm talking about books, something I undoubtedly inherited from my father. Here I was, with a pleasant man who was willing to enter into a conversation about Ibsen, of all things, and I was contradicting him with the whole force of my personality. Why, I wondered, couldn't I be demure for even a few minutes of time, until we'd gotten to know each other, at least?

"I'm sorry," I said quickly, feeling myself blushing. "I'm overly opinionated."

To my surprise, the man in front of me laughed lightly. "I haven't had anyone to discuss my reading with for a very long time, and I like strong opinions. Life is a bit insipid without them. Wouldn't you say?"

"Yes," I agreed, smiling.

After that, I brought chairs out of the back room, and the two of us sat down. Mr. Jarvis—Edwin—handed me his books, which consisted of two volumes of poetry, a novel, and a book of philosophy.

"I've finished these," he said. "I—thought you might enjoy them. "

"You plan to come back to find out what I think of them, then?" I asked, growing bolder.

"I do," he answered readily, "if I'm allowed."

"Four books is a priceless gift in Budapest right now," I said seriously.

"I didn't bring them to earn your friendship," he said gently, "but I'd like it all the same."

I looked over at him and smiled, feeling strangely comfortable. "I'd like that too."

We spoke for another hour, comparing our taste in books and plays and films. I soon realized he was an optimist, which conflicted pleasantly with my tendency toward determined realism. We argued extensively, and I enjoyed myself more than I can say.

Finally, when mid-afternoon approached, Mr. Jarvis stood. "I'm afraid I have to get back to my assignment," he said.

I stood up too, noticing again that I didn't even reach his shoulder. "This has been very enjoyable," I said, growing shy.

"I think so too," he agreed. Then, he took his big hands and put them on either side of my face, leaned down, and kissed my forehead. "I would like to spend many more hours arguing with you, Anna."

"Me too," I answered, hardly aware of what I was saying.

As he'd said the previous day, he simply replied, "I'll come back tomorrow." I grinned foolishly as I watched him leave.

There is a man coming to see me tomorrow. He is tall and handsome, and he loves books as much as I do. I like his hands. They remind me of home.


	3. August 5, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There may be few things in my life that I can say with absolute certainty, Miss Anna, but I can tell you that I am, indeed, very good at cooking, especially souffles."

August 5, 1943

"Anna, Mr. Lazar needs you at the hotel today." My boss's smiling face greeted me with this news as soon as I reached the shop this morning. I usually don't mind going to Mr. Lazar's tailor shop; in fact, I never mind. He hasn't asked for me for weeks. Of all days, he had to pick this one.

I should explain. Mr. Lazar is part of our synagogue, and he owns the tailor shop inside the largest hotel in Budapest. Mr. Jonas supplies merchandise for him to sell, and sometimes, when business is good at the hotel or if one of the regular tailors is out, he loans me to Mr. Lazar. It's a compliment. My sewing skills are very good.

"Is it absolutely necessary?" I asked, realizing that I had no way to contact Mr. Jarvis and let him know I would be gone when he came.

Mr. Jonas raised an eyebrow. "I can't imagine what could possibly make you want to stay in our quiet little corner of the world when you could escape to the glittering lights of downtown."

"Very well," I said, not wanting to arouse more suspicion and be forced to provide an explanation.

Mr. Jonas gave me cab fare—an extravagance, but he's a kind man, and we live in dangerous times. Normally, I would have enjoyed a ride across the city in the early morning, but today all I could think about was my disappointment and how confused Edwin would be.

My thoughts quieted when I reached the lobby of the hotel, occupied instead by immediate concerns. As I walked past the row of desks, the hotel employees nodded and smiled. They all knew me. My shoes clattered against the shiny floor, and I straightened the jacket of my navy blue suit and squared my shoulders. Mr. Lazar's shop is a smart sort of place.

I opened the glass double doors and walked in with intention. "Good morning!" said Mr. Lazar immediately. He was standing behind the counter, a sure sign that he was understaffed. "I'm glad you've come. No one has a way with customers like you do."

I smiled, but I wanted to scream. Apparently, I wasn't even needed for my tailoring skills. Instead of having another pleasant conversation with Mr. Jarvis, I was to stand behind Mr. Lazar's counter and try to sell wares while hotel guests waited for their clothing to be repaired. Still, the Lazars were friends, and I didn't want to be unkind. I took my place, and Mr. Lazar went to the back of the store to supervise the completion of neverending tailoring orders.

At Mr. Jonas's shop, no one minds my reading, but I don't bring books to the hotel. No matter how slow the day is, I stand and smile and try to look as if I enjoy nothing more than waiting behind a counter with nothing to do.

Except, that's not how it went at all. I'd been there barely ten minutes when the lobby door opened and my first customer came in. He was tall, slim, and wore an amused expression that turned to confusion immediately.

"Are there two of you?" he asked.

"Ed-win," I intoned carefully, aware that I was simultaneously blushing and grinning. "There is only one of me, but I am very—what do you say?—sneaky."

"So I see," he answered, smiling as he approached the counter. "I've brought a pair of trousers with a loose hem."

I leaned my face closer to him across the wooden surface in front of me and spoke softly. "If you keep them for another two hours, I'll hem them during my lunchbreak."

He nodded. "I'll meet you on the benches in front of the hotel." He departed, and I watched his back. He had very nice shoulders. I wondered if I had been forward. I didn't much care.

\--

One of the advantages of Lazar's shop is that it closes from 12:00 to 1:00 for lunch. As soon as the boss had come out to dismiss me, I grabbed my handbag with the small sewing kit inside and dashed out to meet Mr. Jarvis without even thinking of food. Thankfully, Edwin is apparently more practical than I am. I found him seated on a bench with a large basket of edibles by his side.

"Hello," he said, rising.

"Hello," I answered, holding my hands out for the trousers he held and taking my seat on the same bench.

"I hope you don't mind a picnic," he continued. "I thought you'd be hungry while you work."

I took out my needle and thread and began to sew. "This won't take more than ten minutes, and then I'd be very pleased to eat a picnic with you, Mr. Jarvis."

"I'm very grateful," he answered, "but still wondering why you're here."

I looked up from my sewing for a moment. "My father is a rabbi. The owner of the shop where we met is from our synagogue, as is the owner of the tailor's shop in the hotel."

"We—take care of each other," I added, "especially now."

"I see," he said.

"What do you do when you're in England?" I asked, my eyes firmly on my stitches. "Are you always a soldier?"

"Far from it," he replied. "I trained as a butler." I was surprised enough to drop my needle. I'd only ever known butlers through stories, and I thought of them as rotund figures with permanently distant expressions.

"I've never seen a butler before," I said, looking up.

"What do you think?" he asked, smiling.

"I'm wondering if you're as good at cooking as Mr. Jeeves from the PG Wodehouse stories."

His face lit up. "There may be few things in my life that I can say with absolute certainty, Miss Anna, but I can tell you that I am, indeed, very good at cooking, especially souffles."

I laughed. "I would like to try some of your cooking some time."

"I'd like that too," he said.

We kept talking about nothing until I finished his slacks, and then we spent the next half hour eating the picnic, which contained an overabundance of delicacies that made me begin to suspect—well, when a man spends that kind of money on a picnic just because he runs into a girl in a hotel tailor's shop—she starts to get ideas about how he might be feeling about her.

But I'm getting sleepy, so I'll stop speculating for now.


	4. August 6, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We hadn't touched, but he'd smiled at me, the kind of smile that people only have when they're looking at their favorite thing in the world. I've stored the image in my mind, where it will rest always, no matter what happens.

August 6, 1943

"Papa, I've met a man," I said, as soon as I'd gotten up this morning and put on my yellow dress. I hadn't actively tried to conceal my new friendship from him, but he'd been busy, and I hadn't known how to communicate my thoughts.

"What sort of man?" he asked mildly, between sips of coffee, a passion we both share.

"An Englishman," I said, "attaché to a general. He's—not Jewish." I hadn't quite meant to say that. If Edwin was just a casual acquaintance, what did it matter? As I heard myself say the words, I realized that it mattered very much.

"I knew it would be so," said Papa, as placidly as before.

"What?" I asked, looking up from putting sugar into my cup.

"I pray a great deal, my Anna," he continued, "and sometimes I hear answers." He put his hand on top of mine. "You know the rumors as well as I do. It won't be long before Budapest isn't a safe place for us any more. This man will take you far away, where you will be protected."

"I've only just met him," I said, indignation and confusion and surprise swirling around my mind.

"These are bad times," my father answered. "Long ago, I wished for something different for you, but this is how it will be, how it is meant to be."

"I don't even know if he likes me, Papa," I retorted.

"You're blushing," he said.

"What if I don't like him?"

"Still blushing."

I laughed and shook my head, trying to be irritated, but too happy to manage it. I could hardly believe Mr. Jarvis could possibly come to really care for me, but it had been a long time since I'd seen my father wrong about anything important. At the very least, I was glad he didn't object to the idea of the tall Englishman—my tall Englishman. Maybe.

I put on my deep pink lipstick and laughed at myself for wondering if Edwin liked the color. Anna, you're acting like a teenaged schoolgirl I remonstrated with myself. But I couldn't help it. I kept remembering the end of our picnic. We hadn't touched, but he'd smiled at me, the kind of smile that people only have when they're looking at their favorite thing in the world. I've stored the image in my mind, where it will rest always, no matter what happens.

I made my way to Mr. Jonas's shop, as I always do, glad to be back at my usual post for the day. Mr. Jarvis had said he would come if he could, though his day would be busy. I tried to reconcile myself to the likelihood that he wouldn't, but I couldn't help feeling disappointed as the hours wore on, slow and monotonous.

Finally, a half hour before closing, a familiar silhouette filled the doorway. I was glad I didn't have any customers, because I grinned like a ninny, and I could feel myself going red again. "Good afternoon, Anna," said Edwin, smiling and removing his hat. "I've discovered a solution to our problem," he continued.

"What problem?" I asked, baffled.

"The problem of our not seeing each other for the entire weekend," he said.

"Oh?" I said, "and what solution do you suggest?"

"There's an officers' party at my hotel on Saturday night," he said. "I would—be very honored if you would accompany me."

My breath caught in my throat. This was different from casual visits in slow shops and impromptu lunches. This meant—

"You actually like me?" I blurted out, not particularly elegantly.

Edwin moved closer, looming over me across the counter in what I can only describe as a highly pleasant way. "I like you very much indeed." Now he was blushing.

"I like you too," I said, figuring that as I'd made a start, I might as well finish.

"Does that mean you'll come?" he asked after a moment of silly grinning.

I nodded. "But only after dark, when the Sabbath ends."

"I understand," he said. "I'll come for you the moment the light disappears."

"Here," I said, pulling out a scrap of receipt paper and writing my address on it. "This is where I live." He put it into his breast pocket.

"I have to go," he said, still smiling. "I'm—I'm ever so pleased." I nodded, bewildered and delighted and a lot of other things all at once.

I must stop writing and sew, for the Sabbath is almost here, and I haven't worn my best dress in ages.


	5. August 7, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful, like the happy days when I'd been a university student, and the war hadn't yet come to us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Jewish Sabbath takes place from sundown Friday to the appearance of three stars in the sky on Saturday and is a day of rest in which many activities classified as work are prohibited.

August 7, 1943

This morning, I awoke and went through the motions of the Shabbat, accompanying my father to synagogue, as I always do. I confess that my mind was split between the reading of Scripture and my plans for the evening. Papa always says that God understands our preoccupations. During prayer, I took time to thank Him for Edwin, surely a gift I could never have anticipated. I also prayed that I would have courage to tell my father about the party. It was one thing for him to give his blessing to his daughter's friendship with an English officer, another for him to be comfortable with her attending a party with the man. I am not a child, and my father is not authoritarian, but I dreaded disappointing the man I love so very much.

We ate our noon meal at the home of the Fehers, who talked politics with my father and tried to talk them with me, though my mind was elsewhere. "My daughter is preoccupied these days," said Papa, by way of explanation of my failure to attend to the conversation.

"We all are," Mrs. Feher agreed, patting my hand kindly, "and Anna is out in the world, with her job and her education. You must be very proud, Benjamin." Few people call my father, the rabbi, by his given name, but the Fehers are our oldest and dearest friends.

"Certainly I am," he answered smoothly, but he fixed me with a pointed look from across the table, and I could tell he perceived that something was on my mind.

We were shooed home by our hostess soon after lunch, because she observed the signs that my father was weary after his morning work. I planned to give him a few hours to sleep (and myself a few hours to gather my courage) before I told him about my plans. Instead, as I turned to leave our front room for my bedroom, his voice accosted me. "Anna." I turned back and found him smiling. "Come and unburden yourself of whatever secret had you preoccupied during synagogue and nearly unresponsive during the meal."

"I'm sorry, Papa," I said.

"That is an inauspicious beginning," he answered drily, but he opened his arms and held me for a moment.

"Mr. Jarvis—the man I told you about—has invited me to a party this evening." I let out the information rather breathlessly once my father had let me go.

"Is that all?" he asked mildly and with some amusement.

I punched his chest lightly with my right fist. "Abba, I have not been out with a man in years, let alone an English officer you haven't met. My apprehension was hardly unreasonable."

"I told you I knew it would be this way," he answered. "And I expect that when he comes to fetch you tonight, the problem of me not knowing him can easily be remedied." I blanched a little bit. In my surprise at being asked out, I hadn't thought of this, and consequently, I hadn't warned Edwin.

My Papa, always frighteningly good at reading me, understood my thoughts. "You may be twenty-eight," he said, "but I do wish to meet the man. You can hardly blame me for that."

"I don't," I answered, kissing his cheek. "Now go to sleep, or you won't be in fit condition to meet anyone." His arm lingered around me for a moment longer before he went to his room.

I, too, went to my room and tried to sleep, but the sun seemed to take longer than usual to fall lower in the sky, the signal that Shabbat would soon end, and I would be free to ready myself for the evening. I'd prepared everything I would need the night before, and my deep blue dress hung on my closet door, while my lipstick and face powder sat expectantly on my dresser. In the mean time, I read the poetry of Keats, one of the volumes Edwin had given me.

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art—

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—

No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

Beautiful, like the happy days when I'd been a university student, and the war hadn't yet come to us.

Finally, the sun set, and I knew Edwin would be watching so that he could come for me as quickly as possible. I gazed out the window and breathed a prayer of thanks that three stars appeared quickly, twinkling above me as if to offer their approval.

As fast as I've ever done anything, I put on the dress, which cinched my waist and made my legs look a little longer than they are—not that there's much to be done there—and painted my lips with crimson. I was pinning my dark hair atop my head when I heard the sound of a car approaching, followed by a knock at the door. I'd wanted to be the first to greet Edwin, but I had a mouth full of hairpins and a head of tousled curls.

Our house is not a large one, and I heard the door open and the exchange that followed. "Good evening." Edwin's voice was quiet and deferential, as usual.

"Good evening," said my father. "My name is Benjamin, but I suppose my status as Anna's father is the only salient point at the moment."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Sir." I blushed crimson at my father's words, but Mr. Jarvis's answer sounded good humored, even amused.

"My daughter will be ready presently," Papa continued. "I would tell you to take care of her, but she's well able to do that. You had, however, better show her a good time. She doesn't get out often enough since the troubles."

"I intend to," said Edwin. Just then, I emerged, hoping my hair was firmly affixed to my head. I'd rushed quite a bit in an effort to cut short the awkwardness.

"Anna," said Papa, "your officer has arrived."

"Father!" I said, blushing again.

Edwin stood beside him, grinning his face off. "Here," he said, holding out his arm. "I've been sternly instructed to make you enjoy yourself, and I plan to do so."

I curled my hand around his proffered limb and rolled my eyes at my father. "Good night, Papa."

"Good night," he answered calmly, "and I'm glad to have met you," he said to Edwin, who nodded before shepherding me out the door.

"I'm sorry," I said, as soon as the door closed behind us.

"I'm afraid I'm driving us," said Edwin apologetically, leading me to a black car. "All the usual drivers were busy. Would you prefer to sit in the back or the front?"

"Certainly the front, with you," I said. He opened the door, and I sat down inside, marveling at the beautiful upholstery and luxurious comfort.

Edwin took his place in the driver's seat and turned to me. "No need to apologize," he said sweetly. "I'd hoped to meet your father tonight. If I had a daughter who was going out with a man for the first time, I'd want to size him up."

He drove through the dark streets, and I tried to enjoy the ride into the expensive part of the city, but I kept finding my gaze drawn to my companion, who wore his dress uniform, with its impeccable tailoring and glittering accents. I'd seen plenty of well-dressed soldiers. None of them had ever made me feel the way Edwin did.

"You look beautiful," he said after a while, sounding nervous, his eyes firmly on the road.

"Thank you," I answered. I suppose a lady should have left it there, to take her compliment demurely and lapse into blushing silence, but I didn't. "You look more handsome than any man I've ever seen."

He coughed, but recovered presently and answered playfully, "You may live to regret that. We're attending a party full of men in uniform."

"I doubt it," I replied.

I would have been happy to spend the entire evening in Edwin's singular company, but we arrived at the hotel soon enough, and he helped me out of the car and left it with a smiling valet. This time, I took his arm out of more than companionship. I was anxious, I confess. I'd never been to a party full of sophisticated foreign soldiers. I would have voyaged to the end of the world with Mr. Jarvis by my side, but I couldn't completely shake my nerves.

I'd only ever been to the hotel's grand ballroom during the day, when it was plain and empty, the shell of festive potential. As we entered, however, it was a blaze of light and sound and movement, filled with men in uniform and women in dresses worth more than a month of my wages.

"Jarvis! You made it!" The voice was loud, and my companion and I turned to find ourselves face-to-face with a short man who had a drink in his hand.

"General," said my companion politely, as several people around stopped and watched. The man who'd accosted us was important, I could tell, and I surmised that he was the general Edwin served. "This is Miss—"

Edwin was cut off in the middle of my name by the general's drunken voice. "I know who she is. She's that Jewish whore from the shop downstairs."

Instantly, I felt my stomach clench and my cheeks flush, but I kept my head high. I was mortified but determined not to show it. Amid the laughter of some around us and the surprised expressions of others, I let go of Edwin's arm and walked through the sea of people and toward the balcony that I knew was just off the ballroom. I was deeply relieved to find that the double doors to it were closed but unlocked, and I slipped through and closed them behind me.

Tears came then, and I couldn't stop them. I leaned against the railing and let the cool evening breeze brush over my heated face. I was ashamed and angry and hurt all at one time. Anna, I reproached myself, you should have known this night wasn't for you. Within five minutes, I heard a light tapping at the door, followed by someone joining me on the balcony. I didn't turn around.

"Anna." The voice was Edwin's. "I'm so terribly sorry."

"It's not your fault," I said between tears, with my back to him. "I'm sorry I shamed you in front of your superior. I should have known."

"Nonsense." His voice was firmer than I'd ever heard it. "He's the one who should be ashamed."

"You say that," I continued, "but I'm not ignorant. I know how most of the world views my people."

Edwin came closer, and in an instant, he'd put his arm around my waist and pulled me around forcefully to face him. The gesture wasn't a harsh one, but I could feel how much stronger he was than I am.

He cupped my face with both hands. "I wish you'd stayed around a moment longer—to hear me tell him—tell them all—how proud I am to be here with you."

"You don't mean that," I said miserably. "You're trying to be nice."

"Stop being so stubborn," he answered, pulling me into his embrace and cradling my head against his chest (it didn't reach very high; as I've mentioned, he's quite tall).

"I like being stubborn," I pouted, very nearly comforted back into good humor.

"So I've observed," he answered drily, tenderly stroking my hair and causing part of it to come unpinned and fall down my back.

"You'll have to take me home," I said. "You've ruined me."

"I have a much better idea." The mischief in his tone caused me to look up into his face, where I found a twinkle in his eyes. "Do you trust me, Anna?" I nodded. With that, he took my hand and led me back off the balcony and into the edge of the ballroom where, thankfully, the party had moved on without us.

Walking so quickly I could barely keep up, Edwin took me the shortest way out of the room and into the corridors of the hotel. The route was one I didn't recognize, but it eventually ended at an unassuming little door that led into a tiny courtyard. He pushed it open for me and ushered me outside. The courtyard was empty, save for grass and a few wildflowers, but the moon shone down on it cheerfully, and the stars above cast silver light.

Edwin took off his jacket and sat down on the ground, pulling off his shiny black shoes and socks. Following his example, I sat down next to him and unpinned the remainder of my hair and took off my pumps, relishing the feeling of grass against my bare feet.

"Come," he said, putting his arm around me.

I snuggled into his side and rested my head against him. "Thank you for defending me."

He sighed. "In a perfect world, you wouldn't need defending."

"In a perfect world," I retorted, "there would be no soldiers in Budapest, and I'd never have met you."

"Arguing already," he murmured, putting his head on top of mine. We sat in silence for a long time, watching the stars and enjoying the low sound of the wind whistling around us.

"What are you thinking of?" Edwin finally asked.

"Keats," I answered. I lifted my head to look into his face. "Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art."

"Nobody—"he began, as if he wasn't quite sure how to say what he meant, "Nobody could be as steadfast as you were walking out of that ballroom tonight, as grand and imperious as a queen."

"Thank you," I answered. "I've practiced that look many times on customers who slagged off Mr. Jonas's prices." He threw back his head and laughed.

In the end, I didn't dance today, and I didn't really attend my first officers' party. Instead, I spent an hour in a courtyard with bare feet and a man's arm around me. He hasn't kissed me, but I wouldn't mind if he did.


	6. August 8, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna spends a day trying to understand her feelings for Edwin Jarvis.

August 8, 1943

Last night, when Edwin brought me home, Papa came out of the house in his robe. "I'm inclined to approve of you," he said drily to my companion, who had gotten out of the car to open my door for me. "This is earlier than I was expecting."

Edwin smiled and nodded. "Anna was flagging, and I didn't want to tire her out." By that time, I'd come around the car and stood next to him, no doubt grinning idiotically. "Good night," he said, bending down and kissing my forehead unabashedly, in full view of my father.

"Good night," I said. "And thank you." He winked at me and got into the car, speeding off into the dark night.

"When should I expect grandchildren?" my father asked, earning him a light punch in the arm as I accompanied him into the house. "The man is clearly taken with you."

"He's very respectful," I said.

"I have little doubt of that, my dear," said Papa. "I'd like to be a fly on the wall to see what happens if any man ever tries something with you." I grinned and sat beside him on the sofa.

"The question is," he continued after a while, "whether you are taken with him."

"I think—I might be," I answered.

"Good," he said, then got up to go to his bed.

A mother might have asked about the evening. She'd have probably made me tell every detail of the party and the horrible confrontation and the way Edwin had comforted me and how the grass of the courtyard had felt beneath my bare feet. My father did not ask any of those things, but what he did say was, I thought, absolutely perfect.

I tried to go to bed, but sleep was a long time coming. I was too happy. It wasn't a frenzied kind of happiness; it was a quieter kind, like the warm euphoria of finding something you've lost and have been looking for a very long time.

This morning, I awoke to hear my father singing while he cooked breakfast. Mr. Jonas's shop is closed on Sundays because so many of our Gentile customers go to church, so I always have the day to do as I please. I knew I wouldn't see Edwin, but I didn't really mind too much. I've always enjoyed spending time by myself and getting lost in my own rambling thoughts. Besides, I needed time to sift through my thoughts and feelings about the week.

That's why, toward midday, I took a walk in the city. I knew very well that it might soon be too dangerous to move around Budapest freely, as it had been sometimes already, so I took advantage of the relative quiet and peace.

I walked down to the flower market and then through the stalls where jovially yelling men tried to sell large cuts of meat to red-faced housewives. Without really meaning to, I walked far enough to be in the part of the city that contains Edwin's hotel.

I wondered what he might be doing. He'd told me that he attended a Protestant church in the morning, but I had no idea what his afternoon would contain. Perhaps he was busy working; did officers have to work on Sunday? After all, war doesn't stop for the weekend. I realized I knew very little about Edwin's actual duties, and I determined that I would remedy my ignorance when I saw him again.

Truthfully, I couldn't get my mind off Edwin Jarvis for any length of time. It wasn't a loss of identity or autonomy or personhood on my part. I'm strong enough; I don't need to prove that to myself. But he is tall and kind and funny and gentle and all the things I haven't found in a man (other than my father) for a very long time.

I miss him I admitted to myself some time after the noon hour had passed. It felt silly to miss someone I'd seen the night before, and perhaps it was. But love is allowed to be silly.

Love.

I think I am falling in love with Mr. Jarvis—with his voice and his hands and his wonderful eyes. And with the way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention. There's something in me that wants to resist, because it's scary to give in, at least it is for me. I like feeling invulnerable. Perhaps Papa is right, however, when he says that we can't truly love without risking part of ourselves. And, I am learning, there can be joy in the risking.

Tonight I have spent the evening trying to read the novel Edwin gave me, Great Expectations by Dickens. Instead, my mind keeps wondering to the feeling of my head resting against his shoulder and the heady weight of his strong arm around me.

I had not—I gave up ages ago thinking I would ever find a man who didn't mind my sharp opinions and short stature, but Jarvis leapt right over not minding. I think—I think he actually likes how quickly I speak and the fact that when we're next to each other, we look like an art student's out of scale painting.

I keep telling myself that I can't know what's going to happen, that it doesn't make any sense to think about an uncertain and unknown future. But love is silly, and I am falling in love. I can't help it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely kudos and comments. Apologies for the delay in updating. I haven't been well, and Wednesday, February 25, I'm having my third surgery in a year. Hope to have another chapter up soon for you all.


	7. August 9, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An early-morning visit from the police turns Anna's life on its head.

August 9, 1943

I didn't think I was going to make it to work this morning. Oh, that makes it sound so mundane, when it wasn't mundane at all. Just a few minutes before I was to leave, three policemen came to our house. The police know my father and his position in the community, so I didn't think to much of it. As soon as I'd let them in, though, they started barking at Papa like they were giant dogs and he a defenseless puppy.

"Where is Almassy?"

"Gone to America."

"Marton is withholding taxes, isn't he?"

"No."

On and on, over and over, until I was red-faced with rage and it seemed they'd asked about every family in our synagogue. Papa kept his equilibrium, but I wasn't having charitable thoughts, let me tell you. Finally, after forty-five minutes, they left as abruptly as they'd come.

"What in the world was the purpose of that?" I asked furiously, breathing in and out as quickly as if I'd just taken a run.

"Calm yourself, My Child," Papa said gently. "It's only meant to intimidate us. I can handle verbal harassment quite well. Upsetting us is exactly what they mean to do."

"We should report them!" I said.

"To whom?" he asked. "Our kind have been barely welcome here for a long time, Anna." I could not deny it, so I kissed my father's cheek and left for work, using the long walk to Jonas's to calm my nerves.

I must say, it didn't work, and I was still shaken when I arrived, glad that I would be working alone. I went over every display in the store three times, straightening everything until it was geometrically perfect.

Finally, when I was starting my fourth circuit, Edwin came to me. I was so preoccupied with my own thoughts that I didn't even notice the shop door opening.

"Anna?"

I turned, surprised, and launched myself into his arms. He had the presence of mind and delicacy to simply put his arms around me and hold on tightly, and I had the indelicacy to start crying immediately. I had the fleeting thought that he was likely to think I was unhinged, given that I'd cried during our previous encounter, but he didn't seem to mind.

"My Anna," he said in his velvety voice. "My darling girl." He cradled my head in one of his large hands, and I closed my eyes and enjoyed his comfort. Finally, when my sobs quieted, he broached the question. "What has upset you so much, sweetheart?" Had I been in a less fragile emotional state, I would have snorted at the idea of someone calling me "sweetheart," but as it was, I almost purred like a kitten.

"The police came today," I said softly. "They questioned my father. I was scared they were going to take him away. It's—getting worse."

"I could protect you," said Edwin, very softly, so softly I could hardly hear him.

"What?" I asked, confused. I knew enough to be sure a British officer didn't wield that kind of power just because he wished to.

He gently pushed me a little way away, so he could look into my face. He left one hand on my shoulder and rubbed the other one across his face, obviously nervous. I silently drummed the toes of my worn-out boots into the wooden floor, feeling the strange tension that had suddenly filled the air between us.

"It's—I've been thinking about this for a few days, but I shouldn't even presume," he said. "You'll think I'm taking advantage."

"What in the world are you talking about?" I asked. I hadn't seen Edwin so uncertain before, and I wanted to put him out of his misery.

"Marriage," he choked out. "We could get married. As my family, you and your father would be protected."

"Why in the world would you agree to marry me?" I asked, no doubt staring at him like he'd sprouted wings.

"Agree to marry you," he said to the floor, "as if someone was twisting my arm." He shook his head and put his hands around my waist, pulling me closer. "Anna, I've wanted to marry you since the day I saw you through the shop window for the first time. I would marry you tomorrow or in ten years. It doesn't matter. I'm very sure." I lifted my hand to his face to wipe away the tears that were leaking from his wonderful eyes.

"Listen," he said. "I—I wouldn't take advantage. We could live like brother and sister, if you wanted. I just want to keep you safe."

"Brother and sister?" I laughed loudly. I'm sure it was a terribly inappropriate response, but I'm not much good at classic romance, really. Then, I kissed him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe and kissed him as hard as I could. He was surprised at first, but he quickly got into the spirit of the thing and lifted me off my feet after a moment.

"Thank you," I said, when we'd finally pulled back to catch breath and he'd set me back on the ground. "I thought my arms were going to break." It was his turn to laugh. "Now you see exactly how sisterly I feel," I continued.

"Do you really want to marry me?" he asked.

"I'll be honest with you," I said. "I've always been cautious. It's not at all like me to marry a man I've only known for a week. However, I've never lived through a war before, and I've never met you before. I know that I love you. I also know that I'm stubborn and opinionated, and I know it won't be easy.

Edwin smiled, and his eyes crinkled, and he took my hands. "The best things in life are never the easy things, Anna. If you let me, I'll make you Anna Jarvis, and I'll work every day of my life to keep you safe and help you find your happiness."

"Edwin," I said, "if you let me, I'll no doubt drive you to distraction and burn your toast. But I promise to make you laugh when you're sad and stay with you through thick and thin."

This time, he kissed me, and I melted into him like butter on a summer morning.

I suppose all of this will seem terribly romantic one day, in retrospect, when we're old and gray. But I am a reasonable woman, and I know it won't be easy. That's the real beauty of it, to me. Edwin isn't marrying me after a long, drawn-out courtship. He's sacrificing so very much, committing his life to a woman he's only known for a week, giving up every chance he might have at happiness with someone else to offer shelter and protection to someone he's chosen to love. Commitment is an unfashionable word for an unfashionable thing, but I have always thought it was the best thing of all.

He says I am giving up something too. If I am, then why does it feel like I'm gaining the whole world?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to all the real-life wartime couples who found themselves in circumstances that forced them into acts of extraordinary and unusual sacrifice and commitment.


	8. August 10, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It probably seems like, from my diary, that my father and I have always been close, but before my mother's death, we hadn't been—as much, anyway. We had loved each other, surely, but Papa had been the tall, quiet figure who led the synagogue, and I had been a little in awe of him."

August 10, 1943

If diaries could speak, you'd no doubt be asking me how my father took the news of my engagement. After all, it's one thing for a man to like the boy his daughter is seeing and quite another for him to have the idea of marriage sprung on him at such short notice.

But Edwin is no boy, and I am no child.

"I will ask your father," he said, somewhere in the middle of all of yesterday's kissing and hugging.

"No," I said quickly. "I'll tell him." It's not how I'd ever imagined things going, but it felt right.

I had planned to wait until morning, but as soon as I walked into the house from work, I found my father in the front room, and he gave me a pointed look. "What's happened? You look like you've seen a miracle."

I sat down on the sofa, beside the man who had raised me, loved me, and held me together for twenty-eight years. Without saying anything, I wrapped my small, cold hand around his thick fingers and rested my head on his shoulder.

"What is it?" he asked. "You're behaving like you did when you were eight years old and scared to tell me something."

He wasn't wrong. Perhaps there was more than one recollection in his mind, but the time I was remembering was a few months after my mother's death, months when I had been distracted and sad.

\--

It probably seems like, from my diary, that my father and I have always been close, but before my mother's death, we hadn't been—as much, anyway. We had loved each other, surely, but Papa had been the tall, quiet figure who led the synagogue, and I had been a little in awe of him. My mother, with her laughing eyes and quick wit, had been the one who raised me and disciplined me and tucked me into bed while my father talked with the men of the synagogue late into the night.

And then she was gone, and the house had grown so quiet it was like a tomb. As small as I was, I had done my best to be silent, to eat what the ladies of the synagogue prepared for us without complaint, and to put myself to bed and get myself ready for school. My father was in a haze of grief, his eyes red-rimmed and his own plates of food barely touched.

We went on like this for a while, until my teacher finally sent me home with a note that filled my heart with dread because I knew what it contained—an explanation of how badly I, who had always been called a smart child, was doing in school since our grief.

"Have your father sign this," she said.

Briefly, I considered trying to forge Papa's signature, but even as a little girl, I was pragmatic enough to realize I wouldn't get away with it. Instead, my heavy feet carried me the two blocks home to our small house, and I came inside, not knowing what in the world I was going to do.

"Anna, what is wrong, small one?" As I walked through our living room, my father's voice surprised me out of my overcast thoughts. I didn't realize it then, but I know now that even when I thought he was paying little attention to me, he never stopped watching. Perhaps, until that day, he hadn't known how to respond to what he observed.

Papa was sitting on the sofa, studying Talmud. He was casually dressed, and he looked young and tired. (He didn't look young to me then.) "Nothing, Abba," I said quickly, trying to brush past him to get to my room.

He put a hand out and gently but firmly pulled me closer to him. Filled with fear about the paper in my pocket, I couldn't meet his eyes. He took the hand that wasn't holding my waist and lifted my chin, looking into my face. After a long look, he pulled me into his lap and put his arms around me. I buried my face in his shoulder, trying not to cry.

"Is it your mother?" Papa asked softly, his voice muffled by my unruly hair.

I shook my head no, feeling my face go red, glad he couldn't see it.

"You're scared of me." I stiffened in his arms, and he continued. "I've—I've seen it for a while now, but it's gotten worse since she left us. I told myself it was just the pain of loss, but it isn't. Grief doesn't take away everything, but you—you've extinguished yourself like a candle."

"I'm sorry, Abba," I said, not sure what I was supposed to answer.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, my Anna," he murmured softly. "We will start again—I'll start again, I mean. If you let me."

"Please—don't be angry," I said, suddenly scraping up the courage to retrieve the crumpled note from my pocket. I didn't understand what my father meant by his emotional declaration. He had never been so open with me before. But his gentleness gave me enough boldness to do what I knew I must.

He scanned the note quickly, and I watched his face from behind my hair, unable to tell how he was reacting. When he'd finished it, he folded it in half and discarded it on the wooden table in front of the sofa, his left arm still holding me tightly.

My father turned back to me then and gave his full attention to snuggling, rearranging me on his knee so that I was cuddled into his chest and easier to hold. Confused, I pushed away and looked into his face. "Papa, are you going to punish me?"

"Small one," he answered kindly, "if I were going to punish you, I would have to punish myself too. Do you think you're the only one who can't concentrate on your books? For months now, the words swim in front of my eyes when I try to study, and my teachings have been hollow at best. It's not a fault to be sad and distracted. Time will help us both, and until then, we can help each other."

I settled against him then, relief and comfort spreading through me like warm water. Papa simply held me for ages, and finally I fell asleep. The last thing I remember from that night is him picking me up in his strong arms, carrying me to bed, and tucking me in with a kiss—the first time he'd ever done that, but far from the last.

After that day, he read me my assignments aloud after school each day, and I read him his books, curled up on his lap and secure in the crook of his arm. We had both made each other better at our work, and we had never been distant again.

\--

"What are you thinking of?" I sat up and smiled as my father's voice pulled me out of my memory.

"I was thinking of when I used sit on your knees and read Talmud out loud," I answered.

"Not so long ago," he replied, which didn't allay my concerns that the idea of his little girl marrying a near-stranger would be less than welcome.

"Tell me," he ordered, not unkindly but certainly with intention.

"I—Edwin has asked me to marry him," I answered. "He says that if we marry, he can protect us." We had learned to be direct with each other, my father and I.

He nodded. "And what was your reply?"

"I told him I would," I said in a low voice.

"Just so," he answered, but there was sadness on his face that was worse than him getting angry or trying to forbid it. I crumpled into tears.

Papa put his arms around me. "Why such unhappiness, small one? You must marry, and it will be well."

"You're sad, Abba. I hate it when you're sad."

"Yes," he answered, "I am sad. If it weren't for this war, you would have long days to walk with your Edwin down the streets of our city and learn him and laugh and argue and become something together, the way your mother and I once did. I am not sad for your choice. I am sad for what this fighting has stolen from you and your soldier. It's not right for young people to be robbed of these things."

"But you consent?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered, hugging me tightly, "you have my blessing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is going to continue; have no fear. I'm still on the heels of a year of major health challenges that included life-changing surgery and chemo. Some weeks are better than others, but I'm getting better over all.


	9. August 15, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. and Mrs. Jarvis face increasingly desperate circumstances.

August 15, 1943

I'm a married woman.

My Papa married us, of course, with the whole synagogue looking on. You'd think they would have wondered what had possessed their sedate rabbi to give his daughter away to an English soldier none of them had ever met, but things have gone—they've gone far enough in recent days that very few of them had questions in their eyes. Perhaps they didn't see the real love that is growing between me and my husband, but they understood that Budapest is becoming a place where Jews are no longer welcome, where any means of escape is welcome. My father, though—he knew I was happy.

I wore my mother's dress and my mother's memory. Edwin looked like something from an American film, with his dress uniform and the sharp cut of his broad shoulders. I felt like a tiny grain of sand marrying an ocean, but I think, when he looked into my eyes, he felt the same way.

Edwin had one day of leave, and he took me to his hotel. For the first time, I wasn't the girl behind the counter in Mr. Lazar's shop; I was a guest. When we reached the fourth floor, my husband put down my overnight bag and swung me up off my feet. We had no real home to call our own, but he carried me over the threshold of the first room we shared.

I know that diaries are places where one can say anything, anything at all, but some things are too precious to even write down. I won't recount how kind he was, how he held me on his knee and promised to make me happy and take me to England and buy me a whole library of books. And I won't explain how he told me he would wait—however long it took—to ask for the things that married people share. I will only say that I did not make him wait. We are two people who cannot afford to let any moment pass without drinking every last drop of joy it offers.

Today I write to pass the time while he asks his superior for a letter of passage, a letter that will take me and my father across the ocean, where no one will hunt us because of our ancestors. It is routine, he says, normal for a superior officer to grant such a request when a subordinate is legally married.

\-----

A few minutes after I wrote the above, Edwin returned to our room. I was perched on the bed with a Dickens novel, but the moment he entered, I could tell something was wrong. He looked as if he'd aged five years.

"Darling?" I shut my book quickly as my Jarvis joined me on the bed, spooning me and holding me against him so tightly it almost hurt, a good hurt that said he would protect me with his life.

"They forced me to ask the general who—insulted you at the party the other night. No one else could claim the authority for such a letter. He—laughed in my face."

"Oh," I answered, feeling suddenly and intensely deflated like a pin-stuck balloon.

Edwin took his big hands and turned me around, until we were face-to-face, very close, where I could pillow my head on his arm, and we could feel each other's breath on our faces.

"Anna," he said gently, "I promised to protect you. I know that's why—you agreed to marry me, because you needed my help. You know that I love you, and I will find a way to protect you, but it may be hard. I understand—if you no longer wish to be married, since I've failed in what I promised you. I will not hold you to your promise, since I could not keep mine."

I took my hand and put it on his cheek, feeling his cheekbone under my fingers. "Edwin Jarvis," I said, "I want to be married to you for the rest of my life, no matter what happens."

"Do you—are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Don't be an idiot." I snuggled into him, and he held me on his chest until I could hear his heartbeat slow and his breathing calm.

We didn't speak for several moments, but he finally cleared his throat and broke the silence. "I know what has to be done."

"What do you mean?" I asked from against his shoulder, where I was warm and comfortable.

"I'll have to write the letter and forge the general's signature. I've seen him write it enough times. The key is speed. I'll have to file the letter quickly so that no one is the wiser until you're gone, and then there won't be any more questions to ask."

"No," I said, getting up and staring down him with my elbows on his chest. "It's too dangerous for you. Just—let me stay with you."

"It won't work, Anna," he answered. "You know it won't. Time is ticking away as it is. I can't protect you here."

"Then—I don't care," I said. "I won't let you put yourself in that kind of danger. Just think of what will happen if someone finds out."

"Better to risk that than for you to die," he replied, extricating himself from under my arms and sitting up on the edge of the bed.

"No," I reiterated, standing up and going to the window to stare out at the street. "You won't sacrifice yourself for me." I spoke louder than I had been, feeling frustration mounting.

"I will if I want to, Anna Jarvis," he said firmly.

I was angered by his tone, but he'd called me "Anna Jarvis," and I could not help the warmth that completely filled me at the sound of the words. Even under our desperate circumstances and in the middle of an argument, I knew that I wanted to belong to him forever and for him to belong to me forever and a day.

I felt his hands on my shoulders, and I turned and let him hold me again, the best medicine against the ache of fear and uncertainty. "I won't let you."

He stroked my hair as he answered, "Anna, all of my life I've wanted to do something great, to be a real hero. That's why I joined the service, but all I've done is type letters and make tea. Let me be what I've always wanted to be, for once. Let me be your hero."

My anger slipped quietly away as I stood on tiptoe to put my arms around his neck. "You're already my hero." I didn't say anything else, feeling the futility of trying to stop him. I had married a self-sacrificing man, and I could not fault him for being better than I'd ever dreamed a husband could be.

Now I'm in bed, writing by lamplight with Edwin already asleep by my side. He's written the letter, and tomorrow he will go to deliver it to the correct department. Meanwhile, I will quietly slip away, back to my father's, where Edwin will come to us when it's sorted.

I know that the separation should be very short, but I cannot help feeling deep apprehension at the danger my husband will be in every step of the way. That's why, before we went to bed, I sat on his knee again, the way I had on our wedding night, and I let him hold me for a long time, like I was a little girl needing comfort after a nightmare—Except, the nightmare, I fear, is coming in the morning.


	10. August 16, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They’ve taken my father.” I whispered the words. I didn’t want to say them loudly, to hear myself speaking the unspeakable thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on, this story will contain mentions of the persecution of Jews during the Holocaust. I won't mention anything graphic, but if you're disturbed by that topic, please don't continue with this story.

August 16, 1943

"Anna, Anna, Anna," Edwin's voice called me out of the deep blankness. I will never forget how he said my name—three times, as if he was trying to make it real.

"They've taken my father." I whispered the words. I didn't want to say them loudly, to hear myself speaking the unspeakable thing.

Edwin came to me in an instant, and he sat down in the faded rocking chair in my parents' living room and rocked me—back and forth, back and forth—while my tears came out and soaked the collar of his white shirt. All of my fears, all of my apprehensions, had been confirmed, and my mind rebelled against the comfort my body craved. How could I ever let myself be comforted when my Abba was gone?

"Darling," Edwin whispered, "darling, I've posted the letter. As soon as I receive confirmation, I'll take it to the police, and they'll have to let him go."

"No," I said quietly. "They've charged him with sedition. There's nothing you can do. You know as well as I do that it won't be long before even your soldiers won't be able to stay here any longer. They'll drive us all out, and the ones who stay will be questioned and eliminated."

"Tell me," said my husband, "tell me how it was. You don't need to bear this alone."

I sobbed through the words. "It was two of our police, and one of theirs—one of the ones the Germans keep sending. They wouldn't tell me anything, but I know it's because he's a rabbi. Leaders of the Jews must be stamped out, so their followers will scatter." My voice was bitter.

"He didn't struggle, Edwin. He said—he said this was what he'd expected all along, that he could go happily, because he knew I would be safe. I attacked one of them, but it didn't matter. It all happened so quickly."

"Oh, my little love," said Edwin tenderly, looking at my face for signs of injury, "did they hurt you?"

"Nothing but my heart," I answered.

"I need to tell you something," Edwin said, taking out his handkerchief and wiping my face gently. "Your father sent me a letter the day after our engagement. He begged me not to tell you about it unless—until—something like this happened."

"He said they were closing in, that they'd threatened to arrest him if he didn't stop holding gatherings in the synagogue. He believed his time was short, that once—" he faltered over the words—"once he was taken, he would not be coming back. Anna, he knew my letter wouldn't be in time to prevent it. He said you and I met at the right time, that I'd never been meant to save him, only you."

Edwin was crying by this time, and I put my arms around his neck and my head on his shoulder and held him as tightly as he was holding me. I don't know why, but I started singing one of my mother's songs, a Hebrew lullaby. I suppose, in a way, that moment is the closest Edwin and I have ever been during our short time together. Grief is a magnetic force that can push people inextricably together or force them irrevocably apart.

"Tomorrow I'll go to the police," said my husband after a while. "It's too dangerous for you to go, but I'll see what I can find out and what can be done." I nodded, but my hope was as dim as the dwindling dusk-light outside.

Edwin cooked a beautiful dinner in order to tempt me to eat. I stood in the doorway of the kitchen and watched him, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, and even in the midst of my pain, I loved him with every fiber of my being. My Jarvis is not like other men—he can cook and sew on buttons and discourse intelligently about Romantic poets. But he is mine, and he is everything.

Still, I couldn't eat more than a few mouthfuls, and Edwin didn't force the issue. He just picked me up without saying anything and carried me to bed, helping me into my nightgown and brushing my hair because he knew that I could not do anything for myself, and all I wanted was to rest.

It's the middle of the night now. I slept for a few hours, but then I awoke, as alert as if I'd had water thrown on me. As unobtrusively as I could, I crawled out from under my husband's big arm and came out into the kitchen to write down an account of this day. I want to remember it, not because it was good or beautiful, but because it was the day they took my father away. The words are a desperate prayer that what I feel will not come true, but that if it does, Yahweh will not leave my father's side.

I will stop writing, though I could write a whole book about the pain I feel. But I hear Edwin stirring and getting up, and no doubt he'll find me in a moment. I want to be carried back to bed, to feel his arms around me again, anchoring me to what is real and good and safe. I am fortunate that I am so small and he is so very tall. When he carries me, I can tell that my weight is nothing to him, and so I lean on his strength.

I must lean on him—I cannot face these things alone, or I will go mad.


	11. August 26, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love, he said, is what you see when clothes are ripped and tears are shed and voices are raised but no one leaves or threatens to give up. Love is the choice that keeps people together when everything is tearing them apart.

August 26, 1943

My father is gone.

Day after day, Edwin has gone to the police. Finally, today, they told him that my Papa has been transported. I don't know where. There are rumors about camps, terrible places where terrible things happen. I can't think about it, but I can't help thinking about it.

They say that my father is just a number now. I sometimes think maybe we're all numbers, meaningless symbols in this wide, ugly universe where people live and die and kill.

But my husband comes home to me every night, as solid and warm and good as ever. He holds me when I cry, and he does not get angry when my grief erupts into rage.

Abba once told me, when he was showing me pictures of my mother, that love is not really the thing you see between people when they're smiling and well-dressed and happy. That's only the shadow of the real thing.

Love, he said, is what you see when clothes are ripped and tears are shed and voices are raised but no one leaves or threatens to give up. Love is the choice that keeps people together when everything is tearing them apart.

"Why are you still here?" I asked my husband tonight. I was in my nightgown; I never got dressed today or did my hair or face. I have bags under my red-rimmed eyes. I've been crying almost as much as I've been breathing. Truth be told, I can't remember the last day I fixed myself up or did anything useful.

I'd gone to bed, and Edwin had left me long enough to get a glass of water. I followed him and stood in the doorway of the kitchen, suddenly wondering why he was still with me. He could have married anyone—a nice English girl, or an American. He'd never have had to take on my private pain. It's not as if I'd given him much in return, not in the precious few days we'd had before the agony.

"Why are you still here?" He looked up from pouring my water, and he smiled. I won't forget that smile as long as I live. There was so much affection in it.

"You're my wife," he said. "I'll be with you forever."

"You met me twenty-three days and eleven hours ago," I answered. "You married me eleven days later. Don't—don't you regret it?" I wouldn't have blamed him if he'd said yes.

But he didn't. Of course he didn't.

He put down the glass and came and stood in front of me, not touching me. "Do you regret it?"

I shook my head quickly. "Of course not. But—"

He put his finger over my lips. "No more of that. Just answer me one thing. What is your legal name?"

"Anna Jarvis."

"Do you think you stole my name? Do you think I didn't want to give it to you? I'm not a child. I wasn't tricked into it. I chose to marry you, regardless of what happened after. I married you because I love you, and that isn't a light thing. I chose to love you, because you are the only woman I've ever known that I wanted to love."

"I can't give you anything right now," I answered quickly, feeling my all-too-ready tears coming back to the surface.

He cupped my chin. "You're so blind. When I met you, I saw that you were strong and stubborn and self-sufficient, but all I wanted was to take care of you. I'd never, in a million years, have wished for what has happened, but I am—happy to be yours, my Anna, happy to take care of you. I don't ask for more than that."

I kissed him. I hadn't kissed him in days. Somehow, anything that felt as good as that had seemed like a betrayal of my father, as if it was wrong of me to feel any pleasure when he was suffering.

But now I understood what he'd tried to tell me for so long. Edwin and I had felt the shadow of love cross our faces when we'd embraced in a hotel courtyard, and it had followed us to the synagogue, where we'd held hands and spoken our vows. The days of sunshine had brought us the shadow of love.

As I stood in the kitchen and looked into sleep-deprived face of my husband, with tears running down my cheeks, I knew that the days of shadow had brought us to the sunshine of love, to the real thing.

"I love you," I said. I'd said it before, but I'd never meant it as much as I did tonight. "Will you—dance with me?"

I took Edwin into the front room, and I turned on Mrs. Feher's record player; she'd given it to my father when she and her husband had fled Budapest, just a week after my twenty-eighth birthday. I only had one record, the one I'd danced to with Mr. Bokori at my party.

I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood

I know I could, always be good

To one who'll watch over me

Won't you tell him please to put on some speed

Follow my lead, oh, how I need

Someone to watch over me

Romance is nothing like they show in films, kisses in smoky nightclubs with beautiful people and glamorous lives. We swayed to the music in a robe and a nightgown, our movements sluggish and tired. My husband held me close, and I leaned my head on his chest and let the song wash over me, remembering my father but feeling the furthest thing from alone that I'd ever felt.

The furthest thing from alone. That's what love is when the shadow is gone.


	12. August 28, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't cry until I got outside. I didn't want to show them my tears. They saw a woman in red lipstick with her head held high, who was proud of her husband and always will be.

August 28, 1943

I've just finished curling my hair and putting on my lipstick. I'm trying to pass the time. Last night, Edwin received a message telling him to report to British military headquarters in Budapest to receive the answer to his letter of transit.

For the first time in many days, I'm excited. I don't want to leave my husband or my city, but I know that this is only a step toward the life my Jarvis and I will to have together. He says it won't be long once he's home, perhaps tonight or tomorrow, that I'll be given passage. I've already packed the few things I plan to take with me. Edwin has a sister in London, who will take me in until we can be reunited.

I turn my thoughts toward the streets of Budapest. I won't see them again for a long time, if ever. I remember the little alleys that take me to Mr. Jonas's shop and the busy thoroughfares that lead to the hotel. My mind lingers on the little synagogue, the place my father spent his life and for which he's probably given it.

I look out the window at the houses where the Fehers and the Solyms used to live. Mr. Bokori hasn't left the city yet. He still lives out his days in a shuttered little house at the end of the street, and I say a prayer that he will be safe until his daughter in America sends him enough money to travel to her.

I am writing now because I can't bear to sit idle, wondering exactly what my husband is doing and imagining the worst. This should be a happy day because I'm going to my new home. I'm not afraid to go; I have my father's courage.

\---

I am lying in bed alone in my father's house. I'm writing now because otherwise, I'll scream at the walls. My husband isn't here. I waited four hours, then five, then seven. Finally, a short, red-faced man in a British uniform knocked on my door.

"Mrs. Jarvis," he said, loudly and without feeling, "your husband has been charged with treason against the English crown for the forging of his superior officer's signature. He will be taken immediately to England for discharge and trial."

"Let me see him," I answered, hardly able to breathe.

"You can't," he snapped. "Consider yourself fortunate that you're not being arrested. The English have no jurisdiction over Hungarian nationals, or you'd be charged as well."

He went off in his shiny black car, but I was determined. I walked to the first street where it's possible to find a taxi and hailed the first one I saw. I shoved a fistful of money, far more than the ride was worth, into the hands of the elderly cabdriver and told him to get to British army headquarters as if his life depended on his speed.

The memory makes me so angry I have trouble writing. No one would answer me. No one would acknowledge me. Even the Hungarian girl at the desk just stared at me like I was no one. I stayed three hours, until they finally sent a sergeant out to talk to me. He was the kindest of the lot, but he said there was nothing he could do.

I didn't cry until I got outside. I didn't want to show them my tears. They saw a woman in red lipstick with her head held high, who was proud of her husband and always will be.

Instead of getting a taxi, I walked home, miles and miles across the city. I know it's not safe any more; I didn't care. I guess I should thank the English. At least they told me my husband's fate. That's better than the police. Small comfort.

I'm alone in the house now. I have no father and no husband to comfort me. I pray to God, but I'm angry at Him. My father always said that was all right, that He could handle it. I hope that's true because I can't help it.

I share something new with my father now. I have known for many years what it was like to lose a mother, but now my mind turns to my father's loss, the loss of a wife. Edwin isn't truly gone, and I refuse to consider him so, but I feel the sharp, burning ache of having half of myself violently ripped away. I love my father more than ever when I think of how much he must have suffered and how kind he let it make him.

I'm not worried for myself. It's nearly impossible for Jews to travel across Europe now without official protection. Even if I could afford it, there's little chance I could travel safely. But I don't care very much any more.

In a moment, I'll stop writing so I can go back and read what I've written before and drink every single precious memory to the last drop. I won't let them take my husband away from me. I'll lock him away in my memory, safe and tight, where no one can ever find and hurt him. They may take the future and paint it black with ugly brushstrokes, but the past is a masterpiece—our masterpiece, the one Edwin and I painted for ourselves. Even the difficult moments are sacred now, because we were together in them.


	13. September 10, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'd rather have protected you," I answer back, but he's not here to argue, and somehow that means he always wins. Every time, I end up falling asleep curled up in the soft fabric that he used to wear.

September 10, 1943

I haven't been able to write. And there's been nothing to write about. Just aloneness and emptiness and blankness. I still go to the market to buy food, but that's all. The money I have—a hidden stash of my father's, a bit of my own, and an emergency stash of Edwin's that he made me keep—will run out eventually, but I have no job to go to. Mr. Jonas has closed his shop; he's somewhere in hiding, and Mr. Lazar has been pushed out of the hotel. No one, it seems, wants Jews to be seen any more.

I have a daily routine. I know that I need to force myself, or I'll succumb to the desire to lie in bed and think of nothing but the past. I get up, brew coffee, and read for a few hours. I've long-since finished the books Edwin gave me, but I re-read them, and I read my father's theology books. Even the dull ones pull me from my thoughts, a welcome distraction.

I can't make myself eat at midday, so I pray—Hebrew prayers, mostly. They remind me of my mother's soft voice and my father's low and confident one.

In the afternoon, I cook, something complicated that takes a long time. I don't eat most of it, but I take it and leave it on Mr. Bokori's doorstep. I never see him come outside, but it's always gone in the morning.

In the evening, I let myself cry. I put on the phonograph and dance alone in my living room, remembering my husband's strong arms around me and my father's ready smile. There's no one to see me and judge or laugh.

I fall asleep with Edwin's robe wrapped around me. It still smells like him, like home.

Sometimes I get angry. I recall in vivid detail the day I argued with my husband, told him I wouldn't let him sacrifice himself for me. I yell at him in my head, asking him why he'd insisted on being noble and self-sacrificing when he could have stayed here with me. I'd rather have been taken, when the inevitable comes and all Jews are removed, than knowing he's been arrested in my place.

But I can't stay mad. His face and voice keep intruding on my recollections, so kind and loving and reasonable. He reminds me of our first day and our picnic and our wedding. "I vowed to protect you," he whispers in my mind, softly.

"I'd rather have protected you," I answer back, but he's not here to argue, and somehow that means he always wins. Every time, I end up falling asleep curled up in the soft fabric that he used to wear.

It's not that I was incomplete before I met Edwin Jarvis. I could have lived out my days well, even if I'd been alone. But something changes when you meet the person who—I can't explain it, really—but it changed me. I didn't need anyone before I met my Edwin, but afterward, now, I realize that he's become half of myself. Now that I know him, I'll always need him. It's the piercing ache of feeling like half of me is gone.

I'm scared tonight. I can hear someone outside. The walls of my house are not very thick, and I detect the sound of feet on the ground. All Jews in Budapest have learned to be vigilant. The sound is getting closer. I wish I could believe that I'm just paranoid, but it's unmistakable.

Who would come at this time of night? It must be the police, with their guns and their boots. I'm mouthing a prayer for protection. Perhaps this will be the last entry I write. I don't know if anyone will ever find this book, but if they do, I hope it serves as evidence of what a good man Edwin Jarvis is, no matter how his country decides to punish him. He only did what he did because he had no choice. The most principled man I've ever known followed his beliefs, even when they conflicted with the law. I believe he'd have done the same to save any person, and that's why I love him so very much.

I can hear it; they've come to my house, but there's no knocking at my door. Instead, someone is trying to force the latch of the living room window. I'm under the bed in my room, trying to breathe silently, but I'm confused. Why would the police force a window open when they could bludgeon the door down?


	14. September 11, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What did I have to lose? Nothing, at this point. I crawled out from under the bed and found myself face-to-face with a short man who had a smart-looking black mustache.

September 11, 1943

I should be sleeping, but I can't. And anyway, I don't want to forget one single thing that's happened since I wrote last.

When I heard the window latch in the front room finally give way, I shoved my fist into my mouth to keep from screaming. I heard a dragging sound and then a solid plop, like someone pulling through the window opening and then falling onto the living room floor.

"Mrs. J?" The voice was male, the accent distinctly American. "Hmm," he said, speaking out loud, "he was sure she'd be here."

I could hear his feet walking through my small house, and finally he made it to the bedroom. "Mrs. J, please. We hardly have any time. Edwin sent me; I promise. If you come out, I can prove it."

After a few seconds, my reason prevailed. What did I have to lose? Nothing, at this point. I crawled out from under the bed and found myself face-to-face with a short man who had a smart-looking black mustache.

"Mrs. J at last!" he said, grinning delightedly.

"Who are you?" I asked.

He bowed over-dramatically and then put out his hand. "My name is Howard Stark, and I've come to rescue you." I shook his hand, wondering if I'd stepped into a comic strip or a boys' adventure novel from the 1920s.

"Here's the proof." He unclasped a watch from his wrist and handed it to me. My breath caught. It was my husband's watch, the one he always wore; it had the same scratch on the face and nick in the band.

"How did you get this?"

"From him, of course," he replied.

"How?" I asked. "The last time I heard anything, they were sending him to England for trial."

"All right," he said, "but this is positively the last question for now. We can't wait any longer. Three days ago, I had your husband released from prison and his charges dropped. I could hardly keep him from coming along, but I finally convinced him you'd be safer with a one-man operation—the fewer people the better. We'll join him in London within a day or two."

He's been discharged from the military, but that doesn't really matter too much because I've hired him as my—sort of butler. He's very good at—butlery kinds of things.

"I know," I said reflexively, trying to digest the information.

"Before you try to ask something else, I did it because Jarvis did something for me a long time ago, and I owe him. Plus, I like him. He's a standup guy. As far as how I did it, I'd love to be more delicate and modest about this, especially since you're a lady—a very lovely lady—but I'm trying to hurry. The point is, I have a lot of money, and the Allies depend on me for the weapons I invent. I threatened them, and they let Jarvis go instead of risking me pulling my support and selling to somebody else. So now we can go." I stared at him, and my first thought was that I really doubted that "delicate" or "modest" was anything he could manage at the best of times.

I followed the man—Stark—into the front room, where he'd left a very small parcel. He opened it and unrolled what looked like a pile of canvas, but it opened up into a large bag with a set of small wheels on one end of it. "All right," he said. "There are police in this area. I saw a couple of them on my way over. I don't think they saw me, but if someone gets the idea of coming over here after we're gone, I want them to think there's been a burglary. That's why I did the business with the window instead of just knocking on the door. I apologize for startling you, by the way. Anyhow, we need to make it look like I'm stealing all of your valuables, not that you're leaving. It wouldn't hold them long, but at least it would confuse them enough to buy us more time. That means you're not going to have room for anything other than what you can bring in your hands, and, I promise I sincerely apologize for this, you're going to have to situate yourself in this bag so I can wheel you out of here like a pile of loot. I have a car waiting a street over, so you won't be in it for long."

My mind worked quickly. I brought this diary and the pen I keep with it in my hands, the pearls my mother had worn to her wedding around my neck, and my father's wedding ring on my thumb. He'd given it to me as they'd led him away, so it was my last piece of him.

Stark gallantly assisted me into the bag, but I settled to the bottom of it like a load of potatoes. With that, he seized the handle and dragged me out of the house, the wheels bumping onto the street outside. I can't say it was the most comfortable ride I've ever taken, but my adrenaline was so high by that time that the bumping and bruising hardly bothered me.

My rescuer had timed his operation well. No one stopped us, and within a couple of minutes, I heard the sound of an idling car engine. The bag was unzipped above my head, and a hand was extended down to me. I extricated myself without too much difficulty and stretched my back.

Wordlessly, Stark opened a back door of the long, black car beside the road, and I got in. The driver looked strangely familiar, and when he turned his head and winked at me, I almost gasped. He was one of the policemen I'd seen lounging outside Mr. Lazar's hotel tailor shop more than once. "Good evening, Mrs. Jarvis," he said in a perfectly flat American accent as his employer got into the car. "I'm one of Stark's." I nodded and tried to smile, but my mind was whirling.

We drove through the city as silently as possible, slowly and without any lights on. I was familiar with the streets to a point, and then we turned away from the places I was used to. Stark turned around and poked his head into the back. "We're going to a field near here. My plane is waiting. We'll have to do a quick turnaround when we get there, but I already know you're more than capable." I nodded. I felt like I'd been doing a lot of nodding since meeting him.

I'd never been on an airplane, but I had very little time to contemplate the idea, because we pulled off the road within five minutes, and the driver stopped to let us out. "Thank you very much, Jones," said Stark. "I'll let your wife know you're well." Jones grinned and tipped his cap to me, and I followed Stark outside, into the heavily wooded area in front of us.

Thankfully, within a few feet, my companion pulled a flashlight out of one of the pockets of his bulky jacket and illuminated the way in front of us. I saw that there was a small dirt pathway of sorts through the trees, and we walked it for a couple of minutes before emerging into a clearing that contained a tiny airplane that looked exactly like the ones I'd seen in the movies.

"Pretty, eh?" said Stark. "She's the fastest one in the world." He was still whispering, but he'd let his guard down a little bit since we were out of the city, and there was no one in sight. He led me over to her and gave me his hand to help me into the front seat next to him.

He buckled me in and gave me flight goggles, then got into the cockpit. "We'll have to refuel in France," he said, "but then it'll just be a hop across the pond."

"France?" I asked, as he was checking the controls.

"Sure," he nodded. "I have resistance contacts there. I can't say it won't be dangerous, but I know who I'm dealing with." I settled back in the seat without further comment. It went without saying that the danger was worth it—if I'd stayed in Budapest, I'd have probably died anyway, and I'd never have had a chance to see Edwin again.

The sensation of flying for the first time is difficult to describe, the feeling that a fall is coming, but it never comes. Instead, you go higher and higher, until the ground seems remote and strange below you.

We're at our desired altitude now, sailing through a surreal, dark, beautiful sky-world. I'm writing by the beam of Stark's flashlight. I want to be able to tell my Jarvis every single thing that happens while I'm getting to him.

My Jarvis—my husband, the man I'd never thought I'd see again. I don't know how to hope yet; it hasn't sunk into my mind that if Stark's plan works, I'll be back in the arms of my protector soon. For now, I enjoy the nighttime.


	15. September 12, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The engine sputtered and stopped, and we were still motionless in the middle of a field in the dark—a darkness we all knew wouldn't last much longer.

September 12, 1943

"Wake up, Mrs. J!" Stark was shaking my shoulder gently when I opened my eyes and saw the tapestry of lights below us, like something from a magical children's story. "Paris," said my companion, smiling. "We won't stop there, of course; it's far too conspicuous for our purposes. But some day, when we've won the war, I'll send you and Edwin back for a real honeymoon." I didn't answer because I was wide-eyed, staring at the beauty that even German occupation hadn't eradicated.

We were over Paris for a very short time because of the risk of being seen and pursued, and we were plunged back into darkness very quickly as we approached the rural countryside, flying lower than before. "I told you she was fast," Stark said. "We'll land at the farm of my contact, refuel, and be gone again before daylight—if everything works the way it should."

Within ten minutes, we were coming to a stop in an open field surrounded by cattle pastures. I've heard that airplane landings can be uncomfortable and dangerous, but we glided in like we were riding on a cloud. "I'm good with the landings," Stark boasted. "That's the first thing I design when I'm working on a new model." I couldn't disagree with his self-approbation.

As soon as we touched down, we were joined by a man dressed in all black, who carried a flashlight and a heavy-looking round metal container. "Good evening, Stark," he said in heavily-accented English, and he nodded to me with tight-lipped smile.

"Evening," said my companion. "How's the lay of the land? Any unrest among our German friends?"

"Unfortunately yes," the man answered quickly. "They got wind of the underground prisoner-of-war exchange. They're doing inspections in this area every day at sunrise and sunset. You'll have to be gone before first light, or we'll all be in extreme danger."

To his credit, by the beam of the man's flashlight, Stark didn't look the least bit worried. "We'll just have to make sure we're gone, then," he answered, getting out of the cockpit and coming over to assist me. The feeling of ground beneath my feet was both welcome and strange.

"I'll go and get my wife," said the Frenchman. "She's made you something to eat." He slipped off into the night, and Stark set about refueling the plane with the contents of the metal drum.

I watched with interest, though we could not turn on any light beyond the tiny one Stark had to have to perform his task, for fear we would attract unwanted attention. My companion didn't mind me hovering close. In fact, he would quietly name the parts of the aircraft and explain what he was doing while I watched.

Ten minutes later, we were rejoined by the farmer, who was accompanied by his tall, spare wife, who smiled as she approached us and kissed my cheeks. "Hello," she said softly. "I've brought you a loaf of bread and some cheese. I'm sorry we don't have more." I took a small basket from her and whispered my thanks.

Stark fished into one of his pockets and pulled out a wad of money. "No, no," said the farmer, and his wife concurred with an emphatic shake of her head.

"I insist," said my companion, forcibly pressing it into the woman's hand. "Use it. There's enough to buy whatever your operation needs on the black market, and when you need more, you know how to contact me." They finally acquiesced, and it occurred to me to wonder just how rich Howard Stark actually was. The amount of money I'd counted changing hands was more than I'd ever made in a year, and I hadn't even added up half of the pile.

"All right, we'd better get going." Stark helped me back into my seat, and the farmer and his wife watched while he prepared the plane for takeoff.

Except, we didn't take off. The engine sputtered and stopped, and we were still motionless in the middle of a field in the dark—a darkness we all knew wouldn't last much longer. Stark jumped out as quickly as he could, and I got out on my own. The farmer said something to his wife in French, and she ran off across the field. He turned back to us. "You have very little time now. My wife will keep watch at the house, and I'll go to the edge of the field. If I see soldiers, I'll shine my flashlight three times in your direction. You'll have to run."

I controlled my breathing as best I could and joined Stark as he opened the engine and began looking at its inner workings. I've always liked engines and machine parts, but I've never seen the insides of an airplane. I purposefully let myself get lost in my curiosity so that I wouldn't lose my mind with worry.

It wasn't long before I thought I understood how the parts worked together. I know that sounds strange, but it's the way I've always been, a gift I have, I suppose. It's why the members of my father's synagogue always asked me to fix their cars. I'd wanted to become a machinist or an engineer in school, but the university wouldn't train women in those things, so I studied my second love instead, the written word.

I say that to explain what happened next. I didn't speak to Stark because I didn't want to distract him from his work, but I could tell his frustration was mounting. Three quarters of an hour passed, with him tightening things and loosening others, and the plane still wouldn't start, but the darkness around us began to thin. This was all right until the farmer's wife came running for him, and he came running for us to say that the Germans were at the next farm and would arrive within fifteen minutes at the most. I gave my host another five minutes before I couldn't take it any more; I had to try, even if I was wrong. "Mr. Stark," I said, softly but insistently, "I don't know what most of these things are called, but if you connect that one to that one and bypass that one, can't you route the energy through there and skip the problem area entirely?" I pointed to the parts I meant.

He took about fifteen seconds. "Yes." With that, he performed the operation I'd suggested and signaled to the farmer with his own flashlight that we would be on our way. As soon as he saw our light, the man ran to join his wife at the house, and I prayed under my breath that they would appear normal and unharried when the soldiers arrived. Stark and I took our places in the plane at record speed, and he took off into the breaking down and sped across the sky.

"Mrs. J!" he said excitedly, once we were high in the air, "you have unexpected talents!" He seemed exhilarated by our near-miss, while I was still trying not to shake.

"Thank you—they wouldn't be hidden, except that Edwin and I have had so little time together that he doesn't know about my affinity for machines."

Stark shook his head, still grinning. "I always say it's good luck to travel with a lady. When we get home, I'll have this plane rechristened the Anna J in your honor." I laughed. It was such an absurd gesture, but it was as mad and kind and strange as Stark himself.

I've been writing all this time so that my heart doesn't burst as we approach England. We're getting close. London is unfolding below us, and we'll land at an airfield just outside it. No one's hunting us any longer; in this country, Stark is an honored guest, and because of him, I have safe passage.

We're very, very close now. I see the lighted airfield below us and a single car. There's one man at the end of the runway, tall and sturdy against the emerging dawn. An angel in a gray suit and a Trilby hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anna's unusual ability is a nod to some of the hints that have been dropped about what kind of role Lotte Verbeek's Mrs. Jarvis may play in the new season.


	16. September 13, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's time to go home, Anna," said Edwin softly. I thought to myself, with my small hand in his large one, that I was already home.

September 13, 1943

I'm having a difficult time writing because Edwin won't be quiet unless I'm sitting on his knee, and he keeps on playing with my hair and kissing various parts of my face in a deeply distracting way. Still, I have insisted firmly that I must continue this account so that when I'm old, I can remember every detail.

I thought Stark's plane would never touch down. By the time it did, I felt as if I was spontaneously combusting. We'd barely stopped moving when Edwin was by my side, lifting me out of the plane with his hands around my waist, and kissing me so hard he took my breath away. I cried; he cried. He didn't put me down for ages, but when he finally did, he took of his jacket and put it around my shoulders to keep me warm, and he wouldn't let go of my hand.

"Come on, you two," said Stark, who was standing to the side, clearly delighted. "The backseat of the car is plenty big enough for you to continue." Edwin went toward the driver's seat, but Stark stopped him. "Not this time, Pal. This time, I drive."

Impulsively, I went over to him and kissed his cheek. "Thank you," I said, and I'm happy to say that he blushed.

I was too busy snuggling and kissing and trying unsuccessfully to have a conversation with my husband (too much kissing between the words) to care where we were going, but it was bright daylight when we arrived at a much larger airport.

"It's time to go home, Anna," said Edwin softly. I thought to myself, with my small hand in his large one, that I was already home.

Stark led us past several planes to a much bigger one than the Anna J. He took his place in the cockpit, but this plane was outfitted with a lounge in the back, gleaming and new like the back of a limousine, and Edwin and I curled up together on a plush sofa. I was probably hungry, but I was to happy to notice at first.

"I can't believe you're real," said my husband, cradling me against his chest where I fit very well, being as small as I am compared to him.

"You seem more real than anything in the world," I answered. He'd taken off his hat, and I ran my fingers through his hair, rumpling it across his forehead until he looked boyish and relaxed. "Tell me about everything," I said. So he did.

In his deep, soft voice, he recounted days of questioning, shame, and uncertainty—not regretting what he'd done, but being made to feel as if he should. And he talked about missing his Anna, of dreaming about me in prison and waking up to find himself alone. I cried again and put my arms around his neck and whispered in his ear that we'd never be apart. I wanted him to tell me what he'd done to secure Howard Stark's extraordinary loyalty, but he wouldn't because he was too eager to hear all the details of my escape from Budapest.

When I'd finished my story, we ate the meal Stark had provided for us—steak, somehow still warm, and very welcome to my growling stomach. After that, Edwin and I simply held each other and didn't speak, relearning the feeling of one another

After a long time, my husband put his hand under my chin and tilted my face up to look at him. "Are you still glad you married me, Anna Jarvis?"

"I would marry you again a hundred times," I answered, and the feeling of his arms around me made me feel as high as any drug ever could. He smiled, the light of all the sunrises we'd spent apart filling his wonderful eyes.

Our flight was so sweet and so filled with each other that we hardly felt the hours pass until we reached the private airfield in front of Stark Mansion. "Little Love," said Edwin as the wheels touched down, "we're home now."

He led me across grass and through trees until we emerged into a clearing that contained the largest house I'd ever seen. I hadn't realized they had such huge houses in America. "We have our own suite," said Edwin, opening the oak front door. "It's like a smaller house inside the bigger house, just for us." I stared in awe as we walked on thick carpet through hallways with walls that were filled with famous paintings.

"Here," said Edwin, when we reached a door painted blue, "This is ours." He picked me up, and I squealed because it was lovely and unexpected and because I felt like I was weightless and flying again in my husband's arms. Just as he had when he'd first brought me to our tiny hotel room, he carried me across the threshold of our real, permanent home.

I can't adequately describe our suite. It's beautiful and calming and warm—just like my Edwin. All the colors feel welcoming, and every piece of furniture is perfectly placed. After knowing Stark for a few days, I wasn't surprised by how nice it all was.

There were clothes in the closet in my size and food in the refrigerator in our gleaming, private kitchen. Edwin showed everything to me, and I cried again because it was so perfect, and it was ours.

"No more crying," said my husband semi-seriously, wiping my face with his handkerchief. He ran me a bath in our clawfooted tub, and while I soaked, he cooked a soufflé. He's very vain about his cooking, I'm afraid. (I've just been tickled for writing that.)

We've eaten now, and I'm curled up on Edwin's lap, overwhelmed by the day, but contented and scandalously comfortable. "Are you happy?" he just asked me.

"Happier than I've ever been before."

I once wrote that my husband is not like other men, and I was absolutely right. He's kinder and better and more selfless, and—best of all—he's mine.

"You're my prisoner now," I just said to him, "and I'm never letting you go." He doesn't seem to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one more chapter coming after this.


	17. September 14, 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I turned my back on the water, leaving behind the past and turning toward a future with a man who is tall and kind and almost as stubborn as I am, who loves me more than I deserve.

September 14, 1943

This morning, when I was in the middle of waking, I forgot where I was, but then my body caught up to my brain, and I found that I was curled into my husband's side. "You should have wakened me up," I said drowsily, when I saw that his eyes were open.

"I like watching you sleep," he said, kissing my forehead.

"Hold me," I said, putting my arm over him and getting as close as I possibly could, enjoying the sound of his heartbeat as I rejoined the waking world.

"Anna," he said, "we can stay in bed all day if you like, but I have something to tell you, and I want to go ahead, even though it's difficult."

"All right," I said, closing my eyes and sensing what was coming.

"Mr. Stark did a lot of investigating over the past weeks, and he—was able to find out that a man of your father's name was transported from Budapest to Austria, where he—passed away very quickly in a camp. He became ill on the journey, and he didn't suffer very much—just went to sleep and never woke up."

I was silent, not crying, trying to take in the confirmation of what I'd already sensed deep within me. My father, with his crinkly eyes and his gentle hands, was no longer in the world. I'd known, but knowing all over again, knowing how final it was, hurt in a different way.

"Darling, was I right to tell you?" Edwin turned so he could face me, stroking my hair because my face was buried in his shoulder.

"Of course," I answered. "I'll have to thank Stark for finding out. That was very kind of him."

"Oh, Anna." Something about my husband's voice and his gentleness released the flood of tears inside me that were waiting to come out, and I broke down, the pent-up stress of the past several days combining with my grief and racking me with sobs.

Edwin didn't speak. He just held me for the longest time, until I could breathe normally again and bear to open my eyes. "You're my home now," I said to him.

He put his big hand on my cheek and kissed me, very softly and tenderly. "See," he said, "I've branded you, and nobody can take you away from me." That made me laugh, and I wiped my eyes on the edge of his pyjama shirt. "I'd like to take you somewhere and show you something, if you can stand to go out," said Edwin after a minute or two.

"All right," I answered, feeling emptied and wrung out, but also filled with love and comfort at the same time.

I could hear Edwin singing in the bathroom as I dressed, and I quickly put on a bright red dress that Stark's people had left for me. It was stylish and new and entirely unlike anything I'd owned in Hungary. But I wanted to look pretty and feel pretty, to embrace a future without the man who had cared for me in the past, but with the man I cared for now, who also cared for me, more than I'd ever imagined anyone could. A future in which I could be myself, far from the darkness of the place I'd left behind.

Edwin came out in his shirtsleeves and stared for a while. "I'd nearly forgotten how beautiful you are," he said.

"I hadn't forgotten one iota of how handsome you are," I answered, surveying him as eagerly as he was surveying me.

We ate breakfast in our small, cozy kitchen. Edwin said no one minded if we ate in the bigger kitchen that served the rest of the house, but I was happy to drink coffee and eat toast and eggs with him alone.

"Where are we going?" I asked, once I'd had a few mouthfuls of his excellent scrambled eggs.

"The lake," he answered. "It's my favorite place on the property. I go there to think sometimes."

"I'd like that," I said, smiling at him. "I want to know everything you do and see everywhere you go, but you'll have to draw me a map of the house, or you'll never be able to leave me alone ever again."

He laughed. "As attractive as that prospect is, I suppose it isn't quite practical."

After breakfast, I cleared the dishes and washed them, and I felt that we were probably setting into a comfortable routine. I'm not a particularly good cook, but Edwin is, and besides, I like watching him.

Everything put away, I took my husband's hand, and he led me through more seemingly endless corridors to an outside door at the side of the house. We walked across the property, and I admired the beautiful landscaping and enjoyed the brisk autumn wind. We spoke little but we felt very, very close.

After a ten-minute walk, we arrived at a ring of trees. Edwin took me through them, and I found myself at the edge of a clear, sparkling lake. "Beautiful," I whispered.

"I thought you might like—," said Edwin, "to say something to your father here. I'm so very sorry that you can't lay him to rest yourself. Even Mr. Stark can't accomplish that."

"Thank you," I answered, looking up at him and nodding. He walked several paces off, out of sight, and I bent down and picked up a smooth stone at my feet.

"Abba," I said softly, "you were the best father in the whole world, and I'll never forget you. I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you, but you were always protecting me instead. I'm so glad you knew about Edwin. You knew even before I did that he's a good man. I'm not sure you knew that you taught me so much about loving and being loved. Because of you, I know that it's not about being selfish and needy and without identity. It's about choosing someone and throwing your lot in with them and letting them into the deepest part of you. I've chosen Edwin, and I'll keep choosing him, no matter how hard the bad days are, just like you chose Mother and then me. I love you, Abba, and I always will." I threw the stone into the lake, and as I watched it sink into the clear water, I let go of my father—not to forget him, but to release the darker memories and hang on to the light and happy ones. I turned my back on the water, leaving behind the past and turning toward a future with a man who is tall and kind and almost as stubborn as I am, who loves me more than I deserve.

I met my husband halfway, as he was coming back to find me, and I put both of my hands out and took both of his, facing him and looking into his eyes, content with what I saw. "Thank you for bringing me here, Mr. Jarvis."

"You're very welcome, Mrs. Jarvis."

Tonight I put on the record player in our suite and searched through the mountain of records Stark had provided, finally finding what I was after.

Although he may not be the man some

Girls think of as handsome

To my heart he carries the key

Won't you tell him please to put on some speed

Follow my lead, oh, how I need

Someone to watch over me

I closed my eyes and let Edwin lead, content to simply be. "Thank you for coming home to me, my Anna," he whispered. "I need someone like you to watch over me."

I suppose I'll keep learning about love for the rest of my life, but in that moment, I knew: When it's dangerous. When you're angry. When you're blissfully happy. When everything is going wrong or everything is going well-Love is watching over someone while they watch over you.

Postscript

Edwin's given me another journal, a small, black one that I can take with me wherever I go. This one isn't quite full, but I want to keep it as the record of the extraordinary days that brought Edwin Jarvis to me and brought me back to him.

I don't know what my life here is going to bring, but I'm filled with excitement when I think about it. Tonight at dinner, Stark asked me if I'd like to see his product development lab tomorrow. He thinks I'll like it. He says that if I do, I can go there as often as I like and do whatever I want—because he trusts my talent with machines.

"Talent with machines?" My husband looked across the table at me and shook his head. "Anna Jarvis, you'll never stop surprising me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this story is probably going to go very AU this coming week when Season 2 starts airing. When I began writing it, Jarvis's wife was just an intriguing voice and someone we knew he loved enough to risk his entire life for. We didn't even know that her name was spelled Ana instead of Anna. I'm thrilled to see what the amazing Lotte Verbeek brings to the character, and I want to thank everyone who has read and will read this story for going on this journey with me.


	18. A Sequel

You know that thing that happens when your fic is accidentally and serendipitously almost identical to a show's canon, even though you wrote it without knowing what that canon would turn out to be?

Yeah, I didn't expect that when Ana Jarvis told Peggy her story in the second part of the season opener, it would be so close to the story I'd imagined for her and her Edwin.

As a result, I've begun a sequel to this story. It's called, "That Man of Mine," and it will be Ana's diary entries about her life in the United States. Now that I have interactions between the Jarvises to actually write from, I'll do my best to keep to canon and hopefully write them the story they deserve. (And Ana's name will be spelled correctly this time.) I hope you join me!


End file.
